It wasn't like me to be squeamish. I'd learned to kill in 'Nam, never had a problem with it. I figured the U. S. Government had sent me there, much against my will, to kill people they believed were Commies or Commie sympathizers. The more I killed, the sooner I'd be able to go home. All I cared about was making it back to the States in one piece. When my platoon got hit by grenades, and I came to without a scratch and was the only survivor, I figured I was lucky. Everyone else thought so too. The first time. When the same thing happened with a second platoon and then a third, I became very unpopular. My mates thought that if I wasn't actually some kind of traitor, I was a bad-luck charm for an outfit. My fourth "close call" was different. That time I'd felt a half-dozen bullets rip into me. When I revived, I saw my fatigues had the holes to prove it. But once again, there was no trace of a wound. And I wasn't the sole survivor. There were wounded GIs everywhere I turned, groaning, calling for help. I was sure some of them had seen me take the hit. I didn't know what I was, except that I sure wasn't normal. I was already beginning to suspect that I'd died and come back to life--not once, but four times! How could I possibly explain that? I didn't try. I left the wounded to fend for themselves, walked into the jungle, and never looked back. *** In the years that followed, I roamed the world--became a robber, a smuggler, a soldier of fortune. I learned new and interesting ways to kill. And I killed more than my share. But in the mercenary wars, I figured the morality of what we were doing was for someone else to judge. The people I took out on my own were thugs who would just as readily have killed me. Every so often I'd run into a guy whose nearness caused a strange sensation in my head. They always seemed to have a reaction to me, too. I guessed that whatever I was, they were the same. Most of them sized me up, apparently decided I looked dangerous, and left me alone. But a few came after me with swords. Two even issued polite challenges, like duelists out of the nineteenth century. I defended myself with my martial arts skills, and always came out on top--guess I surprised my opponents even more than they did me. But I knew I was leaving them only temporarily "dead." I couldn't understand why they wanted to fight at all, let alone with swords. They'd slashed me a few times, and the cuts had healed as quickly as any other wound. Still, I was interested in a variety of weapons. So I stole a "dead" opponentıs blade, and treated myself to a crash course in Hollywood swashbucklers. As time went on, I made the happy discovery that I didn't age. So when I knew I looked too young to be a Vietnam-era deserter, I drifted back to the States. And there, in 1988, I met Jacob.